Some
sit stunned
in
their disemboweled state
their
gray spines exposed
as
the sinewy demon-lackeys
move
on to the next
with
their simple tools of
torture

Between
the twisted bodies
a 7
headed serpent
bares
its cumulative fangs
ready
to down 7 miscreants
with
one hiss of a stroke
escorted
by flying snake-swans
to
take care of the dodging rest

Desperate
women sink their teeth
into
one another like rabid apes
while
a bald, randy Bachus
hops
on a straggler and smashes
his
gob with a grapefruit-rock
in
front of a spent
four-boobed
wench

A
looming and three-faced
monster-man
with spiral antlers
and
massive-membrane wings
spread
wide like a peacock erection
casually
devours a nude
and
kicking Adonis
headfirst

To
his left a muscled ogre
shoves
a long, sturdy rod
with
a flaming mop-head
up a
contorted reprobate’s anus
while
a hefty nearby sister
has a
fire-fisted pole
twisted
deep into her vagina

And
the stripped bodies
keep
on tumbling
into
the wail-pit of
broken,
dismembered humanity
driving
the demons and fellow deviants
crazy
in their lust to meet out
pain
and misery

Only
scythe-armed Death
and
old man Time – who extends
the
you-got-it-coming hourglass –
stand
tall and still in the inferno
that’s
painted in the cupola
for
the frail congregants to apprehend
while
caught up in fear inducing rhetoric

All
this in Firenze’s Duomo
where
the Last Judgment
invokes
the revenge-lust
of
Roman law
rather
than God’s fury
for
the lack of love

Florence,
Italy

_______

Stalks

Two
stalks bend
back
their thin
curved
necks
and
clapper with red

abandon,
before
copulating
in a flutter of black
and
white on top
of
Mount Ayatoulouk’s

highest
column

overlooking
Saint John’s quiet
tomb,
resting in the ruins
of
the forgotten church
of
the early East

Moments
later they soar into
the
evening blue and circle
high
in the afterglow
of
their thrill.
Ephesus, Turkey

_______

Pilgrim’s
Palm

In
the valley between
thumb
and pointer
a
village nestles
where
pilgrims gather
to
process down the lifeline
to
the junction where fate
determines
the brambly path
and
young dame destiny
weeps…

filling
the well for the weary
knowing
of the maze ahead
that’s
crisscrossed with choices
the
easiest of which lead toward
Fingers’
End where sharp
nails
scratch a map
deep
into the flesh
leaving
scars they need to read
in
order to get back
home
_______

Stole

In
the vestibule of the Basilica
she
stole a blue veil
and
aired it gently
over
her black-haired head

She
smiled as she felt
the
cloth flow down to her knees
bending
to the movement till the stone
in
its cool embrace welcomed her

Folded
low she sprinkled
her
blessings over the marble slabs
that
softened and gave way
to
the ground beneath

The
earth drank her
heart
while she hid
her
shame beneath
her
new-won stole
______

His
arms weren’t always folded,
But
hung to his side
Till
the pain in his heart
Grew
too strong and he
Lifted
them to the wound,
Folding
the world in his embrace,
Like
protective wings,
Warming
the hurt into
A
love that shone through
His
red robe and wrist,
Where
it lingered for a while
Like
a little sun.

Now,
his face a little pale, and
Tilted
slightly to the right,
Patiently
ponders what must come;
And
for a moment his hair
Hardens
into a crown
Of
thorns that he’ll
Soon
be wearing, bearing,
Till
his skin bleeds
Dew
dabbed roses.

Hyde
Collection in Glens FallsNote:
X-rays show that the arms were originally down at his side
________________________________

Eric G. Müller teaches literature and drama at the Hawthorne Valley High School in New York. He is a founding member of the Alkion Center and the director of the education department. He has written two novels, Rites of Rock (Adonis Press 2005) and Meet Me at the Met (Plain View Press, 2010), as well as a collection of poetry, Coffee on the Piano for You (Adonis Press, 2008). Poetry, articles and short stories have appeared in various journals, anthologies and magazines. www.ericmuller.com